


Spell

by aries_taurus



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Sick Steve McGarrett, Whump, post season 7 finale, radiation poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10950990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/aries_taurus
Summary: “So, this… One of your spells?” Danny asks.He nods fractionally.“They always this bad?”





	Spell

**Author's Note:**

> So, Aolfangirl wanted me to write some Steve!whump when I squeed about 100 days of Steve!Whump on Tumblr. Here it is, as promised.
> 
> I _could not_ miss this opportunity.
> 
> I did not bother my wonderful Beta Sealie with this, so all mistakes are mine. (I want her to post the next bit of the Black Herald, so, I won't disturb her with my silly stories :) )
> 
> I did do some research, but I also used some artistic licence. This isn't an Encyclopedia Britannica article on radiation sickness, so please, don't take it as such.
> 
> Set a few days after 7.25

* * *

 

They’re driving back to the palace after interviewing a witness when he gets that dreaded flash of dizzying heat. A second later, cold sweats beads all over his body, a strong wave of nausea gripping his stomach right on its heels.

He grits his teeth and swallows heavily, giving the rear view and side mirrors a quick glance before turning on the right hand indicator. He’s lucky; there’s a park not a hundred yards ahead.

“What are you doing, Steven?”

He can’t answer Danny. He has to clench his jaw shut and swallow down the urge to retch as the nausea and dizziness swell.

He slides the Camaro into the first free parking spot, thanking his lucky star that there’s a trashcan right by the front of the car.

He ignores Danny’s protests and questions, just shoves the car into park and stumbles out of his seat, leaving the car door open. He lurches towards the trashcan, grasping the edges and doubling over it with a thick retching cough as soon as he reaches it. He’s regretting stopping at Kamekona’s for lunch. This is going to _suck_.

He exhales shakily, thick drool dripping into the trash from his lower lip. He tries not to inhale the smell of sun-heated garbage, trying not to give his temperamental stomach any more provocation but it’s pointless.

He’s hit by another wave of heat and cold sweats as the nausea surges up to the point of no return.

Vomit gushes out of him and into the trashcan, his stomach clenching so hard it brings tears to his eyes. He coughs and hiccups, barely breathes and heaves again, as sweat soaks through his hair and shirt. He sucks in a harsh breath and brings up another torrent of half-digested garlic shrimp, the effort loud and effusive, in full view of gawking young families and tourists visiting the park.

He hears Danny trying to move them along but it’s still humiliating.

He pants noisily, desperately trying to get control of his body but there’s nothing he can do.

He spends a solid ten minutes heaving into the garbage can, until there’s absolutely nothing left in him.

He can barely stand when he’s finished. He can feel his arms and legs trembling and the hand that wipes at his mouth and nose comes away bloody. Another wonderful effect of radiation poisoning.

Danny must see how shaky he is because he’s suddenly right there by his side, putting his shoulder underneath his arm, holding him up, guiding him to the passenger side of the car, helping him sit.

He lays his head against the seat and closes his eyes, just trying to get his breath back, when he feels something soft, a tissue, being swiped under his nose and on his chin.

He opens his eyes to look at Danny, but he can’t muster the energy to talk.

“Your nose is bleeding,” he says, offering the tissue.

It takes a monumental effort to raise his arm and press the tissue against his nose. He swallows heavily, still slightly nauseous. He would like nothing more than to get the awful taste of regurgitated seafood, garlic and bile out of his mouth but the bottle of water in the cup holder is empty.

“So, this… One of your spells?” Danny asks.

He nods fractionally.

“They always this bad?”

He swallows, takes a couple breaths. “Meds… make the nausea worse.” He chuckles, figures Danny will get a laugh out of another little detail: “Makes my shit blue, too.”

Danny snorts. “Thank you for oversharing, Steve, really, thank you. I’m taking you home.”

He doesn’t argue. He wants nothing more than his bed right now. “Jus… Drive carefully. Please. I really do… Get carsick. Ask… Mary.”

“We’ll give you a few minutes, then, let your stomach settle.”

A few minutes which Danny uses to call Chin, mainly to tell him that the interview with Thomas Holina led nowhere. He tells him they’re both knocking off early, but he doesn’t say why, doesn’t say it’s because he’s sick.

“You’re gonna have to tell them _sometime_ , Steve,” Danny says, as if he read his mind.

“Hm.” It’s all he can manage. A small sound, through the thick blanket of fatigue pressing down on him. He can’t even open his eyes.

He hears Danny grumble a sigh before the engine starts. The car starts to move slowly, smoothly. He breathes evenly, tries to relax into the seat, willing himself to ignore the gentle rolling motions of the vehicle.

He wishes he had the energy to speak, to ask Danny to turn up the A/C because his skin feels like it’s sunburned, tight and hot, the earlier sweat evaporated. His throat feels equally dry, his tongue thick, the vile taste of vomit still lingering in his mouth.

He wants water, cold and refreshing, a bottle of it, to soothe his parched throat, to press to his burning forehead, just to cool it off...

A hand on his shoulder jerks him out of his fugue and he opens his eyes, surprised to see the arch and fence of front of his yard. He must have drifted off into fever dreams while Danny drove them, because Danny’s now crouched by the open passenger door, with a hand on his shoulder.

“Babe? You okay?” Danny asks, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. “Geez! You’re burning up! I should get you to Tripler.”

“No! No. Fever… S’part of it. Just… Need… some water.”

“Okay. Let’s get you inside.”

He swings his legs out of the car and sits up letting his chin rest on his chest, waiting for the head rush to pass. He lifts his head back up and offers Danny his hand, using his other to push himself out of the seat.

Danny hauls him up and slips under his arm, taking his weight when his knees threaten to fold out from under him. He spits out a curse as dark motes crowd the edges of his vision. He hates this. Hates it with a passion. He sucks in a breath through his teeth and his sight clears, the wooziness fading slightly, enough for him to walk to the house. Danny doesn’t let him go however and he takes the help. He could do it on his own but it’s easier with help.

It truly is his worst episode to date and he can’t say he’s not a little worried by it. He’s supposed to be getting better, not worse, he thinks as Danny unlocks the door. Maybe it’s just the meds with the heavy lunch, or maybe it’s just a bad day. If he doesn’t feel better in a few hours, he’ll call his doctor.

He shuffles inside and lets himself collapse onto the sofa, draping arm over his eyes. The short walk has exhausted him. He shivers, suddenly cold. The fever must be rising, he thinks, as he rubs his arms.

“You still want some water?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get you some. Why don’t you head upstairs to bed while I get that for you?”

“I just… need to… rest a bit.”

Fifteen minutes and a bottle of water later, he’s strong enough to climb the stairs and make it to his bed. He just falls into it, lying on his side, curled into a ball.

“Hey, no, c’mon. At least take your shoes off.”

“Lemme sleep, Danny.”

“Not yet. You got stuff for the fever?”

Something in Danny’s tone makes him open his eyes and look at his partner, at the wide, distraught, worried expression on his face.

“Danny. Hey. Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop freaking out.”

“I’m not—“

“Yeah, you are. This is just…” he swallows as he feels a flush of heat rising as the fever spikes again. “It’ just… A bad day. The meds are doing their job. Look… Sit down,” he says, gesturing to a corner of the bed. His eyes slip closed again, the relentless fatigue dragging him down, making him feel so lethargic and heavy. He forces them open again.

Danny sits, watches him.

He hadn’t planned on doing this now. He doesn’t _want_ to do this now. He knows he should have done it before, hasn’t because he doesn’t want to think about it. Not when he’s feeling this bad, _especially_ when he’s feeling this bad, but he’ll do it for Danny, because Danny looks so lost and so scared. He can’t leave him like that. He takes a few deep breaths, gathers what little energy he has and forces himself to sit up against his pillows and meets Danny’s worried gaze.

“Listen. Short term: nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, both sometimes with traces of blood. Nose bleeds. Hair loss. Headaches. Dizziness. Fatigue. Fever. Low blood pressure. Low sperm count. Shut up,” he says pointedly to kill any peanut-galleryesque comments. “It can last a few months. The meds absorb the radioactive trace elements left in my body and help eliminate the symptoms, except for nausea and vomiting, which it can make worse. You know there’s a lot of meds I can’t take because of the liver transplant, so I just have to tough it out. The thing that could be more problematic is an increased sensitivity to infections. My immune system is already supressed because of the transplant and the anti-rejection meds, so that’s what we’re watching for. Today’s just a bad day, so let me just get some rest, okay? I’m not dying. Not…” he exhales. “Not now. Not any time soon. Long term? The low sperm count is likely permanent. There’s a good chance I won’t be able to have kids. The biggest long term risk is cancer. Most likely leukemia. But that’s long term, Danny. Leukemia is something that can be treated. Cured even. We’re not there yet. And… we may not even get there, ever. There’s always a possibility that I reject the liver. Next year, next month. Tomorrow. I could get shot tomorrow, too.”

“So what you’re saying is that I’m worried over nothing. This isn’t nothing, Steven!”

“You’re right. It’s not nothing but I’m not dying, not right now. I’m doing my best to take care of it, and I’m going to keep doing that, and I’m going to keep doing my job, with you by my side, for as long as I can. We’ll deal with the rest _if_ or when it comes, all right?”

“Yeah, and in the meantime, you give me gifts to use on my retirement project like you’re not gonna be there and jump onto trucks going 30 miles an hour, like it doesn’t matter if you live or die! You’re trying to tell me you’re acting like you’re not already dying?”

Steve shakes his head, regretting it as soon as he does, the room swimming around him. “I’m not. I had to make that jump, I had to make it. I had to, because it was the only chance those girls had. You really think I’d try those, yes, sometimes admittedly insanely risky ideas if I didn’t think they’d work? Other people’s lives depend on me living through them, on me _making it_ , Danny,” he argues, rubbing his forehead. God, his head aches. “You think I’d risk _their_ lives?”

“I’m just… I’m just scared for you. D’you have any idea how scary it is to be on the sidelines when you do those insanely risky things?”

Steve nods. “I know, Danny, believe me I know. I’ve led men into combat, friends, knowing I was asking them to do things that were likely to get them killed. Ordered them to. I can imagine what it’s like, believe me. Now… D’you mind if we talk about this after I’ve had some sleep?” he asks because the room refuses to stop spinning and he’s honestly too tired to keep going.

Danny shakes his head. “No, no. It’s fine. You’re right. Get some rest. Anything I can yet you?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. Just… shut the blinds. Helps with the headache.”

“Okay.”

He feels the room darken and a tug at his feet.

“Neanderthal. No boots in bed.” In seconds, said boots are off his feet, his socks yanked off.

“Thanks, Danny.”

“Yeah. Don’t get used to it.”

Next, there’s a tug at his belt; Danny working his holster and badge loose. After that, it’s a cold, wet washcloth over his forehead.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Shh. Sleep.”

He surrenders to the pull of sleep, knowing he’s safe, always, so long as he has Danny standing watch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Constructive reviews are, as always, appreciated, both positive and negative, so long as they help me grow as an author.


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